The road to finding the perfect Christmas gift is fraught with danger and excitement.
Last Friday, as I lay on the floor of Target, prying my four-inch stiletto heel from the cold dead grip of a cute, little old grandma, whom I had just trampled, I victoriously clenched tightly in my hand, the last Chia Pet. God how I love the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat that is shopping on Black Friday.
It reminded me of a memorable dining and shopping spree a few years ago. First, a few of us girls dined at a gourmet Mexican food buffet (Okay, it was one of those sidewalk taco carts), and I seriously over-indulged with the refried beans. Then we traveled to the outlet mall in Kimball Junction. Upon arrival, the sisters erupted in loud squeals of delight accompanied by a sudden flurry of hair and the clicking of heels as we scampered toward shopping nirvana. Just as I began drooling over the place settings of Wedgwood China, I began feeling the effects of the refried beans as they were processing through my queenly tummy.
Abruptly, I experienced abdominal cramps severe enough to bend steel. Trying to retain my composure, because a true queen never experiences bodily dysfunctions, I quietly excused myself from the shopping frenzy and began an erstwhile search for a “throne room.” I made my way to the mall directory and noted with frustration that the only public restroom was located at the far end of the mall, at least one-and-a-half blocks away. I began to slowly meander in the direction of the bathroom, but ever a sucker for a dazzling window display, I window shopped as I went. Again I was gripped with another wave of gut-wrenching internal movement and was forced to stop walking. Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead, and with horror, I suddenly realized that the beans had forcefully reached the end of their passage. I clenched my butt with enough pressure to create diamonds. In desperation, I crossed my legs to help reinforce the clenched sphincter. After this wave had passed, I began moving with haste, resembling a speed walker with unnaturally erect posture and clenched buttocks. Buckets of sweat now spewed from every pore. I was now only twenty feet from the bathroom door, but with great dismay, I felt the sphincter begin to give way, and a small amount of “beans” escaped into my underpants. With each additional step, a small bonus deposit was being made. Thank god I wasn’t going commando!
As I reached the bathroom door my panic level rose to a stratospheric level because the room was occupied. I grasped the corner of the building for support, as I crossed my legs and waited the interminable moments for the room to become available. Finally, the door opened and I rushed in, locking it securely behind me.
Relieved to finally be in the bathroom, I gingerly waddled over and took on a dispositive posture in front of the toilet. Hastily, I bent over to lower my pants, taking care so as not to spread the contents of the “bean”-laden panties down my legs. This small act of bending over apparently increased the internal pressure beyond the normal operating parameters of my ample bottom, and the sphincter gave way. The “beans” released in a violent and explosive torrent before my bottom could lower to the toilet seat.
I sat on the toilet with my head in my hands, as waves of physical relief wafted over me. After the world had finished dropping out of my bottom, I started wiping my ample behind with toilet paper and realized the colossal scale of this event was going to be too much for the paper to accommodate. I carefully took my shoes and pants off so that I could remove the “bean” laden underpants, which were of course an unwearable loss. In half-naked, poo-covered desperation, I stepped to the sink and rinsed out the panties so that I could use them as a wash cloth for the rest of my ample bottom. I glanced in the mirror and noted with revulsion, that the “beans” had sprayed a considerable distance, covering the wall.
I marveled as I cautiously inspected the odoriferous new wall treatment. There, looking back at me on that shit-covered wall, was the likeness of Jesus with hands outstretched benevolently inviting me to the toilet. All my etiquette training as a queen had taught me to leave every place better than I found it. So, there I was faced with a classic conundrum of style versus substance; should I clean the room until it shined like the top of the Chrysler Building, or do I run away, leaving the mess, not claiming responsibility, with the added chance that this bathroom might be declared a “Miracle of the Poo” and attract fanatic religious pilgrims? The thought that people might worship my poo was just too much to bear. So at the risk of incurring eternal damnation, I channeled my inner Mommie Dearest and used the wet underpants to scrub down the bathroom wall while muttering through clenched teeth, “Jesus, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at the poop.”
Like always these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Do Navy Seals learn their survival skills on Black Friday?
2. Where are the legitimate “fudge packers” when you really need them?
3. Will Homeland Security consider my bottom a weapon of “ass destruction”?
4. Does shitting out the likeness of Jesus mean I have a “righteous piece of ass”?
5. Would someone deodorize the likeness of Jesus before worshipers arrived?
6. Would the Catholic Church canonize my ass cannon?
7. Would they have used the toilet as a baptismal font?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.